This Living Nightmare
by Nickie S.C
Summary: Set in "The Wall," this story begins with Sylar struggling to deal with his troubled past and the emptiness of his present. Then with the arrival of Peter, Sylar's forced to confront his pain in a different way, as Peter tries to come to terms with his new reality.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: This story starts inside Sylar's nightmare, not long before Peter entered his mind. **

* * *

_Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock._

That sound was Sylar's only friend, the never-ending soundtrack to his life. If you could call this "life," this solitary existence. The repetitive and mocking ticking and tocking of the timepieces, sounding ceaselessly. The hell of the broken ones, making the seconds come too fast or too slow; he kept trying to sync them all up so at least the ersatz music could be slightly less maddening.

_Tick. TICK. Tock. TOCK. Tick. Tock. TICK. Tick…_

Second hands and gears were his main companions, tormenting his overly sensitive ears. It used to be a gift to hear these seemingly simple yet complex inner workings, to know how to remedy them so easily – the only ability that had ever truly been his own. Now it was nothing more than the monotonous task that kept him going, growing exponentially more tiresome and depressing with each passing day. Where there once was joy in such an undertaking, there remained pleasure no longer. This was now nothing more than a job, and not even a salary to make it worthwhile. Futility. Nothingness.

Growing weary once again, Sylar finally retreated to his chair, trading his tools for words. Books were his only other acquaintances. So many books, and not one he hadn't read by now. But still he'd read them over and over, passing the time in this world in which there was no end. The hard cover in his hands was one he'd read many times, the entrancing nature of _The Pillars of the Earth _with its fight between good and evil; it'd been absorbing to view the struggle from the good side for a change.

Also there was something so captivating about brother being pinned against brother; his thoughts turned to the Petrellis, always seemingly on opposite sites, and the brief time he thought he belonged to that rivalry… He thought of the one he murdered, and then of the one he found himself up against time and time again. How many times had he had the chance to murder Peter? With Nathan it was so simple, just a simple flick of his finger and Nathan was no more. Well…for all his earthy existence, that is, but Sylar himself had shared a body and mind with him for a while there. At least, with what made Nathan who he was, all while Nathan proper was dead and on ice. And even when the last ounce of him died for good…Sylar still couldn't purge himself of the memories. Sometimes he took comfort in those recollections, while at other times he wished he could cut them out of his head.

Sylar shook his head, having his fill of all things Petrelli. He tried to focus on the book in front of his eyes, but the next words forced him into a whole nother train of thought: "_the past was like a story, in which one thing led to another, and the world was not a boundless mystery, but a finite thing that could be comprehended."_

His past was one hell of a story, that was for sure, but he could not agree with the latter half of that "realization". There was nothing **but **mystery in his world, and not one thing finite and comprehendible aside from his own heartbeat and the lack of any other. Just how had this realm come to be? One second he was searching for answers on his "fact-finding mission" and the next…this. In the blink of an eye, seemingly, he was the last one left standing to live out this eternity on his own. He could remember no explosion, no war, no possible reason for everyone else to die. But they had died…hadn't they? There was no other explanation. But what about Claire? She couldn't die, either. Was she wandering around Virginia in this same state of solitary, trying to figure out where her "roommate" Gretchen disappeared to?

Roommate, indeed… He saw the truth when he kissed her, the feelings she refused to acknowledge, the fear standing in her way. Not even the fear of narrow-minded people around her, just her own fear of letting anyone break through her walls. Her feelings had desperately made him want to change before it was too late, to have someone know him and love him for who he was beneath it all…if he could ever be deserving of such a thing. Really, what recompense was there for someone who'd taken as many lives as he had? Who could ever love him? Well…he'd finally found his answer. This was his hell, his punishment…this eternal loneliness.

When this thinking became too much for him, he took to the streets to stretch his legs, fruitlessly scanning for nothing and no one that would ever come. He couldn't remember how long it'd been since he'd called out. The first several months, perhaps the first year, he'd make a habit of shouting to the silence, praying to a God he didn't believe in to let someone, anyone answer his cry.

It had now been close to three years in this living nightmare, and nothing, nobody. There was a time he preferred to be alone, left to his own devices and demons, and now…he would give anything to have someone else to talk to other than the voice inside his head. He was slowly going crazy, of that he was certain. Even though he knew he deserved it…still once in awhile, he engaged in his hopeless search. And tonight he was feeling particularly desperate.

"Hello? HELLO?!" he bellowed, knowing the only response he'd receive was his own echo. A haunting and merciless sound. All alone…forever… Just like Hiro had promised him…but at least in Hiro's estimation, he wouldn't be the last one alive. Having no one to mourn his death was bad enough…but this? This oblivion was so much worse.

He sat on the steps of his apartment building, watching the sky turn hues of purple and orange, unfazed by the sun saying goodbye for another day. He surveyed the light fading and the endless night sky showing with stars, the vast emptiness of space that paralleled his own. He used to love to look at those stars, wondering about that very vastness, but now it was yet another harsh reminder of everything he lacked and everything for which he longed.

Eventually he made the climb to his apartment, closing the door with the bloody handprint – his bloody handprint – and surrendering once again to the silence and the darkness he'd come to know far too well.

Later, lying in his bed, he struggled between staying awake in the abyss and giving into his nightmares. Every night, without fail, nightmares. _Funny_, he thought_, to have nightmares _inside _a nightmare…_ Memories of all the bloodshed, the screams of his victims, the pain of the hunger he couldn't control.

His mind had a whole cast of players to run through, and it did just that with no rhyme or reason. Some nights it was a vivid playback of just one murder over and over, while other nights many flashed before him. Never a shortage of grisly acts to replay, even after three years, they still stung deeply. It was like being back in the House of Mirrors, watching his crimes playing at every angle. That had been the first time he'd been able to view his dark deeds from a third person perspective, his consciousness many miles away, taunting Matt Parkman. And since the two halves of him had come back together, he hadn't been the same. And how it came to this…he could never figure out. He wondered if hearing his name in these dreamscapes was the only thing reminding him of his identity, the proverbial horse with no name.

And his name…what exactly _was _his name anymore? Was he still Sylar? Was he Gabriel again? Sometimes he still felt like Nathan. He was stuck between consciousnesses. He'd damaged himself beyond repair, and Matt Parkman took it just a step further at Angela Petrelli's insistence. All of these questions and memories and conflicting points of view… No one to share them with. No one who would listen even if they were anyone left. To the rest of the world, he would always be Sylar; the depraved murderer who would stop at nothing to gain every last ounce of special he could control. But he'd long since lost control of anything and everything, and he could not begin to decipher who he was any longer.

The first character cast in tonight's nightmare was Brian Davis, appropriately so…the beginning of everything. That hypnotic telekinesis. He wanted it. Needed it. Needed to be special. Needed to be someone. Bludgeoning Brian with the crystal, setting out to fix his broken brain. Not realizing in the process he was breaking himself, forever just a second or two off, searching for the next ability to set him right again. He could not comprehend the voracity the word "need" would take on. But no ability would quench the thirst, no amount of being special could ease the hunger…each new power leaving him even more starving than the one before. A vicious circle of need.

His mind transitioned to the cheerleader who died for no reason, the innocent teenager who pretended to be special, screaming and kicking against the lockers as he threw the girl who couldn't die away. But he'd get what he wanted from her soon enough, splayed out on her own coffee table, prodding her brain to find the key to immortality. Because of her he could never hope for the sweet release and relief of death…and he didn't know until much later what a punishment that would be. He'd murdered her father then begged her to help him make sense of his mixed-up mind, which was full of her father's memories. She helped him to discover that he would need to be become ordinary to ever have a chance at a meaningful life. The journey that would never find its destination…or had reached that destination in the cruelest of ironies: with no one on whom to use his abilities, he was all but rendered a eunuch.

Next he dreamt of Peter… He seemed to dream about Peter more than anyone else. The difference being that not only did he see what had actually happened…he also dreamt about killing him once and for all. The most common illusion was Peter taking Nathan's place on that fateful day in that hotel room, slitting Peter's throat with just the movement of his finger. He'd stand there and watch as the blood drained from his neck, the life fading from his eyes. He'd smile…he'd laugh…he'd mock his greatest nemesis, knowing once and for all he'd won. But underneath the bravado, his stomach would turn and sink, knowing that without Peter…he no longer had an adversary so perfectly matched. Without Peter…the fight would never be as satisfying again. And part of him would mourn the life he'd just taken…and just how big a part was it?

It was on these nights he'd awake with a start, jolted by the images and the mix of feelings. How he wanted Peter dead in those moments…but it hurt him each time to see Peter die. Sometimes he'd even wake with tears in his eyes. Peter was the only one he felt ever might've understood him, stricken - however briefly - with that hunger and all the demons it brought. Peter had told him that in the future he was going to become one of the good guys…but was it possible to be one of the good guys when you were the only one left?


	2. Chapter 2

_**Author's Note: I see that there've been a lot of views on the first chapter, and I hope anyone who has read has enjoyed it so far. I'd love to know what you're thinking, so please Read & Review. :)**_

"_Forgive me!"_ Sylar screamed into the night as he jerked awake violently, skin slick and sheets crumpled.

His eyes darted around the room to take in his surroundings, taking a moment to remember his reality. He didn't know which was worse: the seclusion of his waking hours or the moments in his nightmares he wasn't alone. Sometimes bad company was better than no company.

Sitting up in his disarrayed bed, his chest heaving from the horrors he'd just seen and perpetrated, he brought his hands to his eyes and sobbed without worry of who would hear his cries. His heart hammered and his body shook, hating himself, hating the nothingness of his everything. Once again he'd watched Peter die, helpless to stop himself. He realized the more he endured this, the worse it became. There had been a time nothing would've made him happier than to be covered in Peter's blood, bathed in sin, but now… Even though it had only been a dream, yet another dream, it stained him to his core. All the other murders, the ones he actually **had** committed, were enough to bear, but these visions of Peter were horrific unlike anything he'd ever seen or done. They stained his soul, if he still had one, and he didn't know how many more times he could endure.

This particular night's scenario began as the truth and ended as a dark fantasy…but tinged with something familiar. He let his mind wander back into the trance from which he had just emerged…

* * *

He was still recovering from what he'd seen in the House of Mirrors, reeling from the truth that he was a killer. Shrouded by the carnival posters, he sat with his hand held over his mouth, insides in upheaval from their latest purging. Tears lined his face, only partly due to his body's violent reaction to the carnage. He tried to steady his breathing, mind racing with images of all the blood, heart sinking in his chest even as it pounded.

He could remember none of these offenses, but they had to be true. How could he be a killer? How could he take a life, much less the dozens upon dozens he'd just witnessed? He'd been searching for his identity, and now he'd give anything to forget. This monster, this couldn't be him…but it **was** him. **Had** to be him. All of the trauma began to sink in, the truth, and a shiver coursed through his body. He could feel the memories beginning to make sense, making the connection between images on the walls and his part in them.

Rendered still and pensive, he sat with shallow breathing, unable to cry any longer. He wanted to disappear, to leave this place and begin again. But what redemption is there for a monster? He only knew this one part of himself, but surely there was more to him? There had to be more to Gabriel than this. He'd only just confirmed his own name, hearing his mother call him by it. Why did people keep insisting his name was Sylar? And why did he feel married most to the name Nathan? He was Gabriel. He remembered the police telling him he was a watchmaker from New York. So how did he become what he became?

Exhausted and emotionally drained, he decided he needed to sleep, to escape the truth for a little while longer. As he stood, he felt a foreign yet familiar sensation overcome him. Eyes narrowed, brows furrowed, he scanned his surroundings in confusion. His ears began to ring and fill with muffled sounds. He closed his eyes and tried to tune into the source, no idea from where this urge emanated.

_"I… Go… Fine… Ire…"_

These words repeated several times, lulls in between, making no sense. What could they possibly mean? He took a deep breath and attempted to fill in the blank spaces.

_"I… Going… Find you… Ire…"_

Someone searching, searching for someone in particular, searching in ire. Anger. Fury. That last word, it felt like the most important. He must've still been missing something, the words coming stronger and louder, clearer. Once more, he attempted to clear his mind, listening to the mantra. And this time, he finally heard the message.

_"I'm going to find you, Sylar."_

Sylar. That name. His name, one of them apparently, and someone was looking for him. Who? Why? To help him? To hurt him? The uncertainty shook him, afraid of this person and their intention, and also of himself.

Looking up, he saw a man passing by, and all at once he felt a surge of emotions. This man with chocolate brown hair falling into his searching eyes, he meant something. He meant several things. He felt like a brother, and he felt like an enemy.

"Peter," he spoke barely above a whisper, swallowing hard. He didn't know whether to go to this Peter or remain hidden. Feeling equal parts love and irritation, his head swam with indecision.

Suddenly, he felt his feet carrying him out from behind the trailer, steadily towards the man, determination fueling him. Walking through the crowd, he kept his eyes trained on the back of Peter's head. Striding faster, he closed the gap between them.

"Pete," he said almost excitedly, resting his hand on the shorter man's shoulder.

Peter turned around to face him, fury written on his features. "Sylar," he growled.

They stood staring at each other for what felt like hours, in reality only seconds. He could not stand the mixed emotions surging through his heart, opposite ends of the spectrum clashing. How could this person illicit such strong and contrasting reactions? Memories of exchanges began inundating him, his voice and Peter's intermingled with another, seamlessly transitioning back and forth from the contradictory points of view.

"_Haven't I killed you before?" his voice asked with a smirk. "Didn't take," Peter replied with a smirk of his own._

"_Why'd you save me? Why'd you do it?" this other man's voice asked. "Because you're my brother and I love you," Peter said as if there'd been no need to ask._

"_I will never let myself become you!" Peter raged. "You already are…brother" he answered._

"_What you doin, Pete?" the other voice asked again. "It's my turn to be somebody now, Nathan!" Peter called back from a distance. _Nathan! That voice belonged to Nathan, so why was it in his head, seeming to be coming from his own voice box…?

"_You're not a killer, Peter. I am," he said, voice turning back into his own. No response from Peter, but he remembered Peter's face as he spoke these words, looking at him with a mix of disbelief, anger, and fear._

"_I don't know who I am without you," Nathan's voice came, slightly uneasy. "Of course you do," Peter replied. "You're Nathan Petrelli."_

Pain radiating through his face pulled him from the reverie, barely aware that Peter's fist had just connected with his own nose as he landed on the ground with great force. At the same time, he realized that they were now alone in the carnival.

"Don't you dare call me that!" Peter hissed at him from above, scowl stretched across his lips. "I am **not** 'Pete'; you are **not** Nathan!"

Peter pulled him off the ground roughly, throwing him against the nearest trailer. "You **murdered** my brother, Sylar! You murdered Nathan!"

Images of so many murders flashed before his eyes, and he couldn't place the one to which Peter was referring. He was Nathan…yet he murdered Nathan. He was Gabriel…yet he was Sylar.

"I'm Nathan!" he howled as Peter's fist once again struck him. "Pete, stop! I'm Nathan!"

"YOU ARE NOT NATHAN!" Peter roared, hitting him so hard he lost his balance. These eyes, he'd seen these eyes angry before, but nothing compared to this. This horrifying rage, it felt nearly enough to kill him right then and there. But still he felt a kinship to this man, his brother. Even he himself had called Peter his brother. His head spun from the blows and the bewilderment.

"I'm here to end it, once and for all. I think we both knew it was always gonna end this way, only one of us left standing. I'm finally going to be the one who kills you, Sylar."

He looked up to see Peter's arm extended, index finger pointed at his forehead. What should've been a scream was instead a laugh as he felt a shift inside. He raised his hand and threw Peter backwards into an adjacent trailer, watching him fall to the ground. In that instant, he knew his place: he **was** Sylar, and this man was his brother no more, but his long-awaited conquest. He turned his hand to telekinetically grip Peter's neck, smirking as he strode arrogantly towards his adversary, using his other hand to keep him silent.

"Oh, Peter… Did you really think I'd let you take that one away from me?" He made a "tsk tsk tsk" sound with his tongue, his old snarky ways coming back with a vengeance.

"You never learn your lesson, do you? It's always been me. No matter how hard you tried, you could never be more powerful," he said calmly. It thrilled him to no end to see the perplexing fear in challenger's eyes.

"It feels like a million years ago I killed you in Texas. Or tried to. And now…I'm the one who can't die." He smiled and tilted his head. "Did you **forget** that I couldn't die?"

He felt at home for the first time in months, wielding this power, lording it over another. He gave a dark chuckle as he went on with his ridicule, delighting in calling Peter by name again and again, pushing home the point that he was inferior.

"Peter, you should've seen Nathan's face when he realized he was dying... He finally understood that he couldn't stop me, that **no one **could stop me, and the last thing he saw was my face, basking in the glory."

He walked dangerously close to Peter, crouching down to discover the forming tears in his prey's eyes. Something deep inside him stirred, causing him momentary pause. He forcibly pushed it further down, continuing his silkily-spoken taunts.

"Oh, but Peter, he didn't suffer long. I never really wanted **him** to suffer… I wanted **you** to suffer. And look what I've done to you without even having to touch you. That ache in your heart?" He leaned in to whisper: "That doesn't go away."

"Did I ever tell you that I killed my own mother? I didn't mean to…but I did," he said with a hint of grief. "I'm going to enjoy killing **your **mother so much more. Good old Mom…she told me I was her favorite, Peter. Your whole depraved family, thinking you're better than everyone else, thinking you can hurt whoever you want to force your own agenda! It's poetic, really… I took comfort in being a Petrelli…and now I'm going to murder every one of you. I even killed good old Dad so you didn't have to, Peter, and this is the thanks you give me? No, Dad and Nathan didn't suffer…but I have something special in mind for you and Mom."

Standing back up, releasing the hand that was holding Peter silent, he listened to the screamed expletives and exclamations with humor. With the other hand, he drug Peter's struggling form up to a standing position. Then with a casual wave, he sent a dozen of Edgar's daggers flying, pinning Peter to the trailer. Wails of pain erupted, blood beginning to ooze where the skin was punctured through on his arms, legs, and torso.

"You could've just stayed away. Or you could've just stayed dead when I killed you at homecoming. Or in Suresh's apartment. I'm going to make you wish you'd stayed dead, Peter!"

He sent a current of electricity through Peter's body, reacting off the metal of the embedded blades. Howls of fresh agony exploded out of his victim, helpless to stop the burning power of the voltage against the already-torn flesh. He stood watching this display until Peter's cries quieted, concept of time lost, savoring every moment of torment.

"You have this hero complex, don't you?" he finally spoke. "Look where it's gotten you. Except…there's no one left to save. We're all that's left, just you and me, Peter."

Smirking as he used Peter's own words against him: "I think we both knew it was always gonna end this way, only one of us left standing. And now…it's the hero's time to die."

He relished Peter's silent screams as he inflicted the same punishment he had on Nathan, unable to make a sound though the look on his face said it all. He watched as the tears mixed with the flowing crimson, sated, observing the final gasps for breath and agony painted on Peter's features. And then, just as his brother had, he succumbed to his fate, head slumped backward and dead eyes seeing no longer.

In the throes of his elation, abruptly something about this scene no longer felt so satisfying to him. The stirring he'd felt prior to the torture was rising again, and this time he felt himself surrendering. His eyes closed as his breathing became uneven, feeling the emotional alteration overcome him. When his eyes fluttered open, the sight before him caused him to crumble.

"Pete!" he screamed, running to the lifeless body. "Peter! No!" The tears came in torrents down his cheeks, running his hand down the form next to him, using his other hand to cradle Peter's head.

His hands were becoming covered in blood, staining more than his skin, as he cried. He reached up to close the unseeing eyes as he leaned his head against Peter's. "I'm sorry," he whimpered. "I'm so sorry."

His violent intake of breath was choked with a sob, resounding loudly. "I'm all alone now. I don't want to be alone!" He held Peter's body flush against his own, wishing he could take it all back.

"Forgive me!"

* * *

It may've been his most horrific nightmare in the past three years. He never shape-shifted into Nathan inside of it, but Nathan's soul was inside him. The brutality he'd inflicted on Peter was too monstrous even to him, and he cursed his muddled mind. He could still feel Peter in his arms, grateful in some sordid way to feel someone close to him…even if it was a corpse…even if it wasn't real at all.

He wiped his eyes and sighed. Now even in his nightmares…he knew he was alone. Memories of his scrawls, blood in place of ink, in the secret room of his apartment came to him. "Forgive me" had been the focal point on the wall. "Forgive me" had been his first words to Elle. Here he was, still begging for forgiveness though no one could hear him, not in his dreams and not in his waking life. And he would never stop being reminded of that fact, spending an eternity repenting, living in the torment of his own making forever.


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N: If you like what you're reading, please Review! It means a lot to know people are intrigued by this story with so much Wall Verse out there.**_

Giving his pristinely-made bed one last adjustment, Sylar made his way into the kitchen to make his morning tea, putting his newest nightmare behind him. Even though he would never have company, he'd still neatly tucked his sheets with hospital corners and left the blanket atop without even one crease. Despite the accumulating clutter, the books taking over his space, he still needed the semblance of order and control.

He'd come to realize quite some time ago that his life even before his immortality was the same: the illusion of control mixed with self-imposed solitude. The lonely plastic-covered chair in the living room. The single occupancy bed. One chair at the tiny kitchen table. Never the air of invitation. Never the expectation of visitors. Even when he was not the only person in existence, he might as well have been.

Looking around the apartment for what seemed like the millionth time, he tried to remember what it once looked like. A place for everything, and everything in its place. He'd strived for neatness and order, a direct contradiction to his mother's clutter. Once he found out the truth about himself, he figured he must've gotten that attribute from his birth mother. It bordered on OCD, the need for something stable; the only thing he could have power over.

For so long his surroundings had been the same: shelves upon shelves of neatly placed books on the walls in every room, even books atop his refrigerator and kitchen counter. He used to have a hint of a bedroom, tables on either side of the place he slept, even a curtain that could be drawn across from wall to wall to create its own area. Now his bed was pushed up against the furthest window, headboard and footboard removed, nestled behind his work desk. Clocks with different times cluttered the wall where the headboard used to stand. The curtain still hung, though he rarely drew it; being veiled behind it made his world feel smaller than it was already.

As he set the kettle back onto the stove and turned on the flame, he caught a glimpse of the tell-tale reminder of his past, the one haunting physical detail from which he could never escape: his bloody handprint. He didn't linger on it too often, but it was always there.

In the beginning he'd tried to scrub it away. Soap and water didn't work. Window cleaner didn't work. Bleach didn't work. The various chemicals he'd found at the deserted grocery store didn't work. He couldn't comprehend how any of these methods were too weak to wash away something so simple as blood, but no matter how hard he'd scrubbed, no matter how abrasive the tool he used…that bloody handprint remained the same.

He found himself looking at the door like he hadn't in a while, fully reliving that pivotal night that changed his life…

* * *

It had been bittersweet if ever there were a time worthy of the description. He'd finally felt like he belonged somewhere, that his life was no longer so futile. This angel had appeared out of nowhere and saved his life, putting an end to the hunger that was beginning to consume him. She'd had him believe that the rope he'd hung himself from had broken on its own, and that her presence at the moment he was dying was merely coincidence…or a twist of fate. It wasn't until later that he'd find out the truth.

The Elle he knew in the beginning, she was his redemption. He never really believed she'd come to his apartment when he invited her, but she showed up. The first visitor he'd had in…he couldn't remember how long. She'd even guessed his favorite kind of pie. He felt so awkward, having to eat with their plates on the floor since it was the only spot they could both sit down. But she didn't seem to mind; the only thing that mattered was that they were together. She'd held his hand and told him he was special just the way he was…the only person to ever think he was enough as is, without having to be something more. Such simple words meant more to him than anything he'd heard in a long time. Perhaps ever.

He'd never felt that way about anyone. It was hard not to question whether his desperation and loneliness were making him feel something stronger than what actually existed, but he knew that he couldn't deny what was happening in his heart. This woman he barely knew, it seemed like he'd known her forever. He felt complete when he was with her, far more satisfying than the rush of gaining his first ability, far more fulfilling than the unrequited crushes he'd been too shy to initiate in the past. He could tell that she felt the same way after their several hours with one another over the course of those two afternoons. Though the feeling was so foreign and so new, he was certain: he was falling in love with her.

That crucial evening that brought the best and the worst…it was their first official date. He'd been so nervous about nearly every detail. He'd had a salesperson pick out the bottle of champagne for him, saying it was a perfect complement to the baked ziti he would be preparing for dinner. He hoped the estimation was correct, as he'd never so much as tried champagne before. And it'd been so long since he'd prepared a meal for two people, he was unsure of exactly how much to make.

It'd taken him several tries to decide on something to wear, and he'd finally settled on a dress shirt without his usual sweater vest. He also chose to put on his only tie. The sole reason he owned it – and his black suit – was for his grandfather's funeral a few years prior. He was pleased to have a happy occasion on which to wear this simple accessory that'd been hanging, still-tied, in his closet.

He'd set up a small table, draped with a simple white tablecloth, on which to have their dinner. All of a sudden he regretted not buying flowers to put in the center of the table, but the minimalist setting would have to do. He found it rather romantic as it was, and he hoped she would, as well.

As he anxiously waited for her arrival, his mind raced with thoughts far too premature. He simply couldn't help himself. Though he didn't know if most people fell in love so quickly, he felt sure that Elle was that special someone he'd been longing for. She'd already quelled the hunger, already given him the kind of hope he never thought possible. He imagined taking her to meet his mother, finally gaining her approval, satisfied in the knowledge that her Gabriel was finally happy. He wanted Elle to be the only one to know him intimately, the one who would become his wife, the mother of his children… All the things he never thought he could have, he knew he'd found in her.

Elle arrived just before dinner was done, and his heart began to race at the sight of her, unable to wipe the smile from his lips. He had to remind himself to reign in the feelings overwhelming him, to take it a step at a time. Apologizing for his lack of stemware as he withdrew two regular glasses from the cabinet, she smiled and told him it was fine. He couldn't help feeling a bit self-conscious as he walked into the living room and set the glasses on the table.

"This ziti smells terrific," she said enthusiastically from the kitchen, as he hoped it tasted just as good.

He felt a sense of accomplishment and maturity as he popped the cork on the champagne, an act he'd never performed before. She was talking about going to the spoken word show at the theatre down the street, but he had no desire to leave the apartment, despite going along with her suggestion. He wanted to spend all night getting to know her better. Even if they were in a room full of people, she would be the only one he saw. He simply did not want to share her.

Then out of nowhere, there came a knock at the door.

"I invited someone to join us; hope you don't mind," she announced.

He was completely taken aback, and his stomach began to tighten with trepidation. Suddenly this stranger was in his apartment, making him incredibly uneasy. And Elle…why would she think it was Ok to invite someone to join them on their date? He found it uncomfortable to have any negative feelings towards her, but…this was definitely not something he welcomed. In the least.

He barely registered her introducing them to each other, head swimming with so many questions. His perfect night had taken this bizarre turn, and he couldn't find the words to express his displeasure and confusion.

"I thought you two should meet. Trevor has an ability, too," she said so innocently. Just exactly how did she find this person? And why would she do this? Hadn't she been listening when he told her he coveted others' abilities? That he was trying to rid himself of bad thoughts?

"Don't be mad, but I got Trevor's number off that list you had," she said, answering one of his unspoken questions. She had no right to take that list out of his garbage can. Regardless of good intentions. Though it wasn't her fault she didn't realize she was playing with fire…he was angry at the opportunity she was creating for all three of them to get burned.

He watched in a daze as Trevor demonstrated his ability. At first he didn't know if he was more dumbfounded that this person thought it was acceptable to shatter his glasses, or that he was being tempted so callously with the object of his addiction. Truthfully it wasn't the most useful ability to possess; he couldn't imagine a time he'd have much use for shattering things at will…but how many people could say they had the power to make something explode?

Elle was so enamored by this person, this "gift," such as it was… She even thought it necessary to see it again, no care for the mess it made or that the glasses weren't hers to offer. Hadn't she seen him move objects with his mind? The mere turn of his fingers sending the fork swan-diving into the sink? Surely what he could do was so much more impressive.

He watched in mounting frustration as three more of his glasses were "shot" into pieces. And this woman who he'd thought had rescued him from such torment had in turn escorted the Devil right through his door. Again and again, praising how "special" this man was, cooing over him like he was worth anything. This stupid, worthless…compulsory ability… If she thought it was so exceptional, he refused to let anyone else possess it. He wanted it. Needed it.

"You think he's so special?" he growled at her with hungry eyes. "I bet he can't do this!"

With just the wave of his hand, he sent Trevor flying into the wall, knocking down a full section of shelves and books. He held his newest victim in place, overcome with lust and greed. She would see how superior he was, that no one could undermine _his _evolutionary imperative.

"I think you need to leave. Now," he demanded, not wanting her to see just what he was capable of to become so special.

"Gabriel, don't," he barely heard over the hunger ringing in his ears. Then came the electricity jolting through his body, causing him to lose his grip on Trevor and fall to the floor.

He looked around in bewilderment, unable to process what had happened. That sound of the current, that zap, it was vaguely familiar… And it had come from Elle. He looked up to lock eyes with her as she walked towards him.

"Please. You don't have to do this," she pleaded. This angel…this savior…she was like him. And she'd willingly dangled the bait in front of him. She had made him truly want to be Gabriel Gray for the first time in his life, giving him no need for Sylar, no want for Sylar. And all the while…she was betraying him.

"Who are you?" he hissed, throwing her against his refrigerator. Seeing her lying on the floor, he felt an amalgamation of desires: to demand her to tell him how she'd found him; to command her to tell why she'd done this to him; to beg her to tell him that what they shared had been real; to slice her head open and rip the ability out of her brain!

He settled on ordering her to get out. She wasted no time in doing so, as he turned his attention back to Trevor. The sweet screams of submission. The high of taking what was rightfully his, quenching him, sending satisfied chills down his spine. He closed his eyes in pleasure as this new drug coursed through his veins, saturating him.

But as his eyes fluttered open, taking in the sight of his blood-covered hands…he felt empty. He felt sick. Regret washed over and through him, an aching in his chest. He had killed again; his promise to himself broken. He had lost his salvation; Elle had been deceiving him from the start, his siren song…

She'd sealed Pandora's Box only to destroy it, leaving the contents spilling upon the floor, no means left to contain them.

Ever since that night, he could no longer shut off the hunger. As miserable as he'd been before Chandra Suresh had shown a light on the darkness of his life, as sickened and fearful as he'd been when he killed his first two victims…nothing could compare to the hollowness inside him when all the hopes and dreams he'd placed on Elle disappeared. Without her, he had no reason to strive for a normal life. He could've settled for being an ordinary watchmaker as long as she was by his side. But he could no longer go back to such a meaningless existence all alone…not once he'd felt the rush of adrenaline that came with becoming and being special.

* * *

Shaking his head at the memories evoked by the bloody handprint, he finished the last of his tea and washed his cup promptly. The trip through time was exhausting, even as the morning sun shone brightly through the windows. It still hurt to remember how he'd felt before the rug was pulled out from under him. And the story of Elle had been far from over at that point, though he'd never guess he'd see her again. And again she would play with his mind and his heart…

As he headed for his work desk, he dwelled on a thought he'd avoided for some time. Thinking about what a waste it'd all been in the end, all of his efforts to gain every ability he could, everything he'd endured physically, emotionally, mentally… He remembered how it felt to place the rope around his neck, somewhere deep inside knowing he'd kill again if given the chance, not wanting to be that person. As he'd gasped for air and waited for the blackness to embrace him, he was in pain and afraid…but also free. He knew the world would be better off without him, without the monstrosity he was sure to become.

And he wouldn't be sitting here enduring a never-ending destiny of isolation. Every day was like he was slowly dying, robbed of a reason to exist, suffocating…with no end to his suffering. All because she had to save him…and he wished she'd just let him die.

These morbid thoughts swirled through his mind as he began working again. Watch after watch, the pile accumulating. He began to open the back of a Sylar, his old friend, when…

A noise reverberated from outside.

It couldn't be. There was no noise here. He never thought he'd miss noise so much. The sirens, the taxi horns, the people. The things you take for granted are what you miss most when they're gone. Now he was hallucinating them…?

But there it was again. It sounded like a pipe of some sort. He couldn't believe his ears as he stood from his desk in disbelief. It was not possible…yet it was there, clear as day. And he needed to know for his own slipping sanity just what was happening, even though he knew he was chasing shadows. He pulled on his coat and ran into the street, looking for the source.

"Hello?" he called as he walked, feeling apprehensive and foolish, as if something were going to attack him, knowing full well there was nothing there.

"HELLOOOO?!" he yelled, his own echo resounding. He cursed his cognizance, knowing this dance would end the way it always did.

From behind him, he heard two loud bangs, the unmistakable sound of metal on asphalt. He stopped in his tracks and tried to brace himself for whatever was making the sound.

Nothing could've prepared him for the shock of seeing another person facing him in the distance. It couldn't be real… The most familiar face from his nightmares. The one he'd held lifeless in his arms not several hours ago. He couldn't believe his eyes as he cocked his head and spoke barely above a whisper.

"Peter? Is that really you?"


	4. Chapter 4

**_A/N: Sorry it took so long to update! Writer's block. Thank you to those who've reviewed so far. If you read this, please take the time to review. It means a lot and keeps me motivated. With that, I hope you enjoy this latest installment! :-)_**

Peter Petrelli sat staring out the window of the airplane, grateful he had no fellow fliers in the two seats accompanying him. He wanted to be left to his thoughts, as if the onslaught of memories and feelings had any intention of leaving him alone.

He'd been able to get his mother to agree to tell him where Sylar was, seeing the concern and sincerity in his eyes. A quickly booked plane ticket later, here he was, embarking on this mission of insanity: to rescue the man who'd murdered his brother without a second thought…and bring him back to save the world.

Peter hated himself for even entertaining the belief that Sylar had an ounce of good in his demented head and blackened heart. The man who'd mockingly waved to him after killing Nathan a second time. But the dream didn't lie…and it told him that somehow and some way, Sylar wasn't all evil. He'd seen Sylar feign honesty, and it wasn't the same as in the dream. He truly meant it when he told Emma he was there to save her. It made no sense to him, but it had to be the truth.

So swiftly his momentary inner smile turned into a vengeful scowl, trying to comprehend how he was supposed to look Sylar in the eye without wanting to slaughter him. He kept seeing it over and over again, Sylar killing his brother. He had no idea exactly how it had happened, just that his throat had been cut, but he imagined Sylar's smug smile being present at the time he tore his world to shreds. Something in him died with Nathan, never to be seen again, and he wished against his kind nature that there were something he could do to hurt Sylar as much as he'd hurt him, a punishment so much worse than ending his miserable life. But there was nothing or no one he could inflict anything on that would mean a damn to the murderer…nor could he bring himself to do so even if such a thing or person existed.

The lump formed in his throat as he saw Nathan in his mind's eye, dying and unable to even beg for his life. He saw the blood spilling and the light leaving his eyes, all the while Sylar stared on, looking sated. He felt so lost without his big brother. Even though Nathan sometimes caused more frustration than anything, he had always been and would continue to be the most important person in his life. And nothing Sylar could do would ever make that less true.

His mother was right: one isolated act didn't make Sylar Emma's or anyone's savior. But he still had to do what he knew to be right, even if every last fiber of his being was screaming at him to find some other way, any other way. He had to remind himself that he could take Sylar down another time, but now for whatever the reason, he was crucial to preventing something horrible.

He'd barely heard the flight attendant ask him if he wanted a drink. The look of unease on her face showing she must have asked at least twice. She flashed him a quick smile as he politely declined, and he was glad to be left alone, even if his spinning and twisting thoughts were beginning to give him a headache.

His mind kept begging the question of where Emma was now, if she was at the carnival just yet, and how exactly the cello and her presence were important. He saw her scared face from the dream, the blood dripping from her raw fingertips, hearing that beautiful yet sad music those fingers were producing. That innocent and seemingly caring look on Sylar's face, extending his hand…

As if it were happening all over again, he saw his own arm extended in front of him, holding tight to Nathan, begging for him to hang on, to pull himself up and fight. The tears rolled down his face while Nathan smiled back up at him, having made his peace with his imminent death. Deep inside, Peter knew how it had to end…but he couldn't let go without trying to prevent it with every last ounce of momentum he could muster. He couldn't imagine a worse feeling than Nathan being held to this life by the mere strength of his grasp…until he mournfully relinquished his grip and watched his big brother disappear forever.

His heart still lingered in that absence of their connection when he paid it the attention, knowing it couldn't go back to having his brother by his side but unable to fully accept the truth of the loss. He always tried to put on a brave face, not wanting to show the world his pain, not wanting to give Sylar the satisfaction. He went on helping others to make up for the one he couldn't save, still seeing that evil wave in his mind, imagining what he would do to the man responsible if he were to ever see him again.

So many times he wished he'd killed Sylar back in the hospital basement, having him helpless and nailed down, bloodied and defeated though Sylar had characteristically refused to admit that defeat. But even then he knew if he went through with it…even if it weren't literally the case…he'd forever feel as if he'd killed his own brother. Just like he knew that even though Sylar was the one who ultimately put the bullet in his father's head…he had been the one who pulled the trigger. It had been his bullet and its path was already pre-destined.

_Yeah, the bastard tried to help me…_ Peter thought, shaking his head.

Sylar had tried to give him some peace of mind, even though they both knew it was a lie. He couldn't help but feel some fraction of gratitude for the illusion, nor could he help but feel some ounce of pity for this man who'd been deceived so cruelly. In that moment, he saw a sense of fragility and pain in Sylar that he'd never seen before. Beneath the bravado, his grief was palpable. In some small sense, though it'd been his own father who died, he felt that the loss of temporary hope and the reality of the crushing betrayal his would-be brother was feeling had to be worse than his own hurt.

…And then to get even with those who wronged him, Sylar took away someone of much more consequence than Arthur Petrelli. Nathan didn't deserve to die for his father's sins, even though he'd perpetrated some sins of his own. For that, it was hard to hold onto any good feelings toward Sylar for more than a minute. He would've killed Angela, too, had Nathan not fought through to save her. Sylar would've killed him as well if he hadn't been thwarted time and again. In fact, Sylar **had** killed him. Twice. And both times, Claire had been his savior.

Claire… What Sylar had done to Claire was the reason Sylar could never be stopped. At this memory, his blood boiled even more ferociously. Maybe Sylar couldn't be taken down easily, but if he tried enough times, he'd find that sweet spot that shut the monster down for good. He smiled at the idea of having him held down again, no reason to hold back, torturing him again and again until he finally ended the reign of terror. It wouldn't bring Nathan or any of the other victims back, but it would bring the satisfaction of vengeance.

Sylar deserved to pay for every single thing he'd ever done to the Petrelli family. And after he helped Emma, after he'd served his purpose…

Peter sighed roughly, repelled by the violence that was bringing him such joy. Justified or not, every fiber of his being had always been dedicated to helping rather than hurting. He couldn't take the barrage any longer. Slipping the airplane headphones on and playing some classic rock, he tried to quiet his racing thoughts, forcing himself to drift to a less complicated place.

* * *

The luminescence from the streetlights is shining through the windows, getting ready to turn off at any minute with the approaching of the dawn. Peter sits up in his bed, fully dressed, and sighs into the silence of his apartment. Exhausted but unable to sleep, weary of everything, he's greeted by the crushing feeling of being unable to escape or change anything.

He climbs out of bed and walks into his glaringly empty living room, closing the French doors as he goes. He glances at the wall where the newspaper clippings once hung, telling of his life-saving heroics. Always the savior.

…Almost always.

At times easier than others, his resistance is low this morning, thinking of the most prominent exception.

Turning and leaning up against the wall, he slowly slides down until he's sitting, propped up with his knees drawn to his chest. The muddled air of anger, sadness, frustration, and confusion hangs thick all around him. The overwhelming silence fills his ears. His tired eyes look to the sections of walls in front of him, on either side of the entrance to his bedroom, making contact with the memories placed there.

He is still unable to remember exactly how and when these photographs had been put there. He only knows that one rare morning he'd decided to close those doors that stood open for longer than he could remember, and he'd been unable to believe what he was seeing: about a dozen photographs of himself and Nathan, held in place by push pins.

_I must have been in one hell of a fugue state…_ he had mused to himself at the time.

Peter looks to the picture of himself and Nathan on his older brother's wedding day, smiling a rueful smile to contrast the smile of pure joy from years ago staring back at him. It feels like years since he's seen his brother, when in reality it's only been a few months. He tries to hang onto the concept of time that's beginning to slip away from him. It might as well be a lifetime ago…

His eyes drift to two smaller and much older pictures side-by-side. One is Nathan in his Navy fatigues just prior to deployment and his 10-year-old self proudly posing beside his big brother the soldier. The other is from several years later, Nathan in his dress whites home from overseas and his teenage self hugging him, both with wide smiles, his own with braces and the beginnings of his longer hair that irritated their father to no end.

_"No son of mine is going to walk around looking like a sissy!" _he remembers his father ranting to his mother when neither thought he could hear.

_"Arthur, it's just a phase. The more we resist, the more he'll rebel. Long hair is not the end of the world."_ Mom, always on his side, always the one to understand him…even though she'd been wrong about that particular "phase."

In between those two pictures and for some time after, he'd had to endure countless bullying one-sided conversations with his father about how soon he'd be following in their footsteps, serving his country. As much as he respected their devotion to the country, he knew it was not for him. He wanted to help people in a more direct way; he just wasn't sure how exactly to go about it then.

Flashing forward a decade, his eyes settle on his graduation picture, Nathan smiling next to him though Peter knew his brother no more understood his compassionate career choice any more than he understood Nathan's inability to comprehend such things. They were both helping people, and how was medicine any less important than the law?

Though if he were a doctor it would've been easier for his brother and father to understand…the archaic gender stereotype still telling them that nursing was no place for a man. And he was sure their acceptance would further wane once he told them he planned to work with perhaps the most compassionate form of nursing, working with those who were approaching death's doorstep. He couldn't fully ascertain his own reasoning for wanting to work hospice care…but something inside was telling him it was the right choice. His ability to usher people through such a natural yet unsettling transition, it was his gift.

A knock at the door momentarily alarms him, roughly pulling him from his memories of yesteryear. Once he realizes what the sound indicates, he shakes his head and pushes onto his feet, walking the few yards to face the only companion he'd known for some time on the other side of the door.

"You always have the worst timing, y'know that?" he asks as he jerks the door open, looking into Sylar's forever-repentant eyes.

"Sorry. I thought you might like some breakfast," Sylar replies with that placating tone that's tantamount to nails on a chalkboard.

He walks in without being invited and sets two paper cups of tea and a box of blueberry muffins on the kitchen table. Everything about Sylar – from his voice to his eyes to the way he carries himself – screams out for forgiveness. It's gone far past getting old yet Peter can feel some miniscule part of himself beginning to bend to Sylar's will. It compounds the tension already present whenever he's in the killer's presence, making him even angrier to know something in those puppy dog eyes is affecting him.

"I don't like tea," he says ungraciously though he's slightly touched by the gesture. The last thing he wants the other man to know is that he's beginning to hate him any less than he did before.

"Can't exactly get coffee here, Peter," Sylar replies with subtle displeasure. He opens the box and smiles that sickeningly sincere smile. "I just baked the muffins. Still warm." He pulls one out and takes a bite, sitting down and pushing the box toward the chair opposite his.

Peter can't remember when exactly Sylar started making himself so damn comfortable. It never stops being irritating, knowing full well he wouldn't stop trying to make amends for something for which amends don't exist.

"Why did you bake muffins? And since when do you bake?" Peter asks with the usual edge to his voice, trying to pay no mind to how delicious the blueberries smell and how much his stomach is begging him to partake.

"All I had to do was add water. Betty Crocker did the rest. I was hungry, and I thought you might be, too. Plus…it's nice to make something for someone other than myself. It gets really old, eating alone."

Peter understands this and nearly catches himself nodding. He hates when he agrees with Sylar, hates to do anything to give any indication that any sort of good feelings could exist between the two of them. But after all this time, however long it has felt, he's starting to understand far too much of the aloneness.

In the beginning, he thought Sylar was insane. He spoke of years that Peter knew had only been hours, rambled about being the only person in existence. And though Peter knew the truth, it didn't make the feeling any less real. He was having difficulty believing the truth as he watched Sylar's version of reality coming true in this endless prison of their own making.

"I can hear your stomach growling," Sylar's voice broke through his thought process. "Stop being stubborn and just sit down and eat."

He grimaces to learn that his body has betrayed him and has let on how badly he wants to bite into the poison apple. He laments and gives in, walking forward to pick up a muffin without making eye contact with Sylar. Then he backtracks, leaning against the doorframe. His actions are bad enough without sitting down to eat with his brother's murderer.

Still, he can feel Sylar smiling from a couple of feet away. A moment later, Sylar even lets out a chuckle. Peter looks up and sees a hint of something different in his expression.

"Remember that morning when you were eight, Mom made blueberry pancakes and you refused to eat?" Sylar asks giddily. "You hadn't studied for that big math test and figured that since Mom always said you had to have a good breakfast before school that if you wouldn't eat, you wouldn't have to go. Didn't work. But you got a B on that test anyway, didn't you, Pete?"

Staggering silence falls on the room.

Peter can't believe his ears, hearing this detailed and accurate description of this second grade morning. The variegated looks of shock, horror, and rage are painted on his face. Sylar lifts his head up to reveal his expression of trepidation, which only grows more pronounced when the two lock eyes.

"Peter, I'm sorr—"

"Don't you dare say you're sorry!" his voice erupts from deep within his throat. "That is NOTyour memory! That's Nathan's memory! Don't you DARE use my brother's memories!"

Sylar stands up as he tries to speak. "I didn't mean to—"

"I don't care!" he continues to yell. "You forget you have his memories! You forget you know anything about him, about me!"

"It's not that easy," Sylar says quietly as he looks at the floor.

"No, but you sure found it easy enough to kill him, though, didn't you?! DIDN'T YOU?!" He finds himself lunging forward before he can even process the action, grabbing fistfuls of Sylar's jacket.

"I'm sorry!" Sylar calls out, looking genuinely remorseful and afraid. "I'm sorry I killed him, I'm sorry I can't get rid of his—"

"I told you not to say you're sorry! It doesn't mean ANYTHING! It doesn't mean a DAMN THING! Now you're trying to use his memories against me?!" He shoves Sylar backward against the refrigerator with a force stronger than he knew he possessed. "Get out!"

"Peter, please—"

"Get out and forget I'm here, Sylar! I mean it; get the hell out of here!"

Sylar gives him one last fleeting glance of repentance before following his orders, walking out quickly and closing the door behind him.

He's shaking from his outburst, from the influx of emotions. He doesn't know what to do with himself, where to put his hands, where to go. He sits down with despair, using the last of his anger to smack the box of muffins from the tabletop, the box resounding off the side of the garbage can and the contents spraying across the floor.

With a tidal wave of grief, tears begin to run from his eyes. Hearing that long forgotten memory spilling so casually and happily from Sylar's lips was too much to take. That insignificant morning from so many years ago had meant enough for Nathan to remember it, tucking it away neatly until the time arose to recall it. And having to hear it this way…it makes him miss Nathan in a way even looking at the snapshots hadn't brought forth.

"I remember, Nathan…" he cries as the pain of the newly opened wound consumes him, only hoping his words can make it to his brother's ears in Heaven.

* * *

Turbulence ripped Peter from his dream, waking with a slight gasp, even more grateful for being seated alone. His eyes were damp and his body still shuddered.

He tried to understand what he'd just seen. Part of it had felt so real, while part felt completely foreign. He still had his mother's ability to dream the future…but this future was not possible. A future where Sylar would knock on his door at the break of dawn and talk to him like a friend? A future where no one but the two of them existed? That anger, every ounce he'd been suppressing coming to the surface…

The whole dream had the sense of losing touch with reality, the air of time racing yet standing still. He desperately wracked his brain to remember if he could've touched someone in the airport with an ability, in his rush not realizing the absorption of a new power, hoping this was just the work of his overstimulated mind. But he knew himself too well, the distinct feeling of warmth and transition that came with touching another special.

Peter knew that somehow, this dream was a vision. It made no sense to him in the least. It baffled him completely…but it frightened him to the core.


End file.
